Read The Invitation for Free Online

concept. He could work it out later, the way he did with algebra.
    â€œNow about the art itself,” the ancient mage continued. “About magic. I think I speak with some authority here. I have lived for many, many years—more years than you can imagine. And I’ve had time to do a great deal of thinking. And what I think is this.” The ancient creature turned his—or her—face straight in Tim’s direction. Tim could see the eyes were red-rimmed—whether from weeping, age, or exhaustion, he could not tell.
    â€œThe whole thing is a crock,” the mage said flatly. “Not worth the price I paid—not for one second!”
    Surprised by the statement and the anger, Tim instinctively stepped backward. Why would the Stranger bring him to meet someone who obviously hated magic? Was this meant to be a warning?
    The old creature looked into the distance. Is the mage watching the scene in front of us , Tim wondered, or seeing memories of the past?
    â€œIf I had my time over again, I’d be someone happy and ordinary and small. Never get involved in the affairs of the great and the powerful. Never discover the joy of the art. That’s the trouble, you know.” Again the ancient mage turned to face Tim directly. “Once you’ve begun to walk the path, there’s no getting off it.”
    Another crash—and another sparkling building shattered and collapsed into the unrelenting sea below them. It seemed to dishearten the ancient one. “There. I’ve said enough. Take him away, Dark Walker. Show him the next exhibit in the waxwork gallery of the past. And, boy, don’t take what they’re offering. It’s a crock—a big golden crock.”
    Tim watched, stunned, as the ancient magician’s wrinkled flesh slowly dissolved, leaving only a skeleton. A strong wind whipped up, blowing the bones apart and then into dust. Within moments all that was left was a grinning skull. It was as if the only thing that had kept the creature alive was waiting for this conversation to occur. Now that the warning had been given, the magician could let go—and die.
    Shaken, Tim stared at the empty eye sockets. “Did you know this was going to happen?” he asked the Stranger.
    â€œCome, child,” was the only response. “Let’s lose ourselves into the past.”
    Lose is right , Tim thought, as images swirled by in a blur. He found himself in a cave then. The damp walls were covered in paintings of animals, illuminated by a crackling, spitting fire. Men in skins danced around the flames. Tim watched them trying to grapple with the dark world outside the cave: the mysterious forces that must be placated and persuaded, sacrificed and prayed to, loved and distrusted.
    And so—there was magic. Tim wasn’t sure how he knew this, but it came to him as truth.
    Next, he felt as if he were in a museum of ghosts. Hieroglyphs of the dead surrounded him and the Stranger on the rough walls of the pyramids, and Tim realized that they had traveled to ancient Egypt. Dog-faced gods, azure scarab beetles, lotus flowers, and legions of painted men and women glowed from the walls. And magic was here too.
    Then, abruptly, they stood on the banks of the Yellow River of China. In the sky, paper kites fluttered as priests ducked and twirled, wearing the masks of the sacred dragons. This too was magic.
    The world shifted again, and Tim felt Mediterranean warmth, and sunlight. He was inan ancient Grecian vineyard, watching the revelers as they danced in a rite filled with merriment—and danger. Tim’s body pulsed with the energy of the ritual, drawn into the compelling orbit of the vine and the blood.
    He collapsed then, the energy completely drained out of him. “Stop it,” he begged the Stranger. “Please stop it. It’s too much.” He lay gasping on what he thought might actually be solid ground. He knew he was alone again with the